Chapter Text
The Russell house stood as imposing as ever, as audacious as its inhabitants, but inside… it felt hollow. George Russell moved through the corridors like a ghost, the weight of Bertha's absence an ache in his chest.
Three months had passed since the funeral. Three months of black clothing and hushed voices and the suffocating propriety of mourning. Three months since the fever took her. He should have felt relief that the social obligations were finally easing, that the parade of condolence callers had slowed to a trickle. Instead, he felt only emptiness.
He found himself in the conservatory without quite meaning to, drawn by some instinct he couldn't name. The glass-walled room was warm despite the chill outside, humid with the breath of exotic plants. Bertha's orchids lined the shelves, their blooms beginning to droop from neglect.
That's when he saw her.
Marian Brook stood before the orchids with a watering can in hand, her golden hair pinned simply at her nape, a few tendrils escaping to curl against her neck. She wore a modest gray dress and she moved with a quiet focus as she tended each plant.
She hadn't heard him enter. George stood in the doorway, transfixed by the sight of her. He knew her to be the same age as Gladys, nineteen years old. He'd known her peripherally of course, Mrs Van Rhijn’s ward, the orphaned niece from the country. But he'd never truly seen her before. Usually just a polite welcome or a comment in passing. She was a kind girl and had proved to be a good and compassionate friend to Gladys.
She hummed softly as she worked, something low and sweet, and George felt something stir in his chest that had nothing to do with grief.
No.
The thought came sharp and immediate. He had no right. Bertha was barely cold in the ground. And Marian was… well she was a child. Well, not a child precisely, but young. Too young. Innocent. The kind of girl who should marry an upstanding young man like his son, not…
"Mr. Russell."
Her voice startled him from his thoughts. She'd turned and discovered him watching, and now colour rose high in her cheeks. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to intrude. Gladys said the orchids needed tending, and I thought as Mrs Russell was…."
"No." His voice came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "No, please. I'm grateful. I should have thought of them myself. I’ve been meaning to speak to the Botanical society about donating them now that… Well it seems a shame for them to not be of good use."
She smiled then, soft and genuine, and something in George's chest tightened painfully. "Mrs. Russell loved them so. It seemed wrong to let them suffer."
The mention of Bertha should have brought guilt. It did bring guilt. But beneath it, threading through it like a forbidden current, was something else entirely. An awareness of the way the light caught in Marian's hair. The gentle curve of her neck. The kindness in her eyes.
"You're very thoughtful," he said, and heard the weight in his own words.
Marian's blush deepened. She looked away, back to the orchids, and George watched the way her fingers trembled slightly as she set down the watering can. Did she feel it too? This strange charge in the air between them?
Stop.
"I should let you finish," he said abruptly. "Thank you, Miss Brook. For your kindness to this house. I’ll remind the groundsman to pay special attention to these."
He turned before she could respond, before he could do something foolish like step closer, like reach out to tuck that errant curl behind her ear. His heart hammered as he strode back through the corridors, back to his study where he could close the door and press his palms against the desk and try to understand what had just happened.
Bertha was dead. Larry was practically courting Marian, or soon would be, if he had his way. He had seen the way his son looked at her. Yet George, widower and father, had just felt his breath catch at the sight of a girl young enough to be his daughter.
God help him he was ashamed.
Outside his study window, New York stretched on, a reminder. A reminder of weight of expectation, of propriety, of everything he was supposed to be pressing down on him. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Marian Brook standing among the orchids, humming softly, bathed in golden light.
It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing.
But even as he told himself this, George knew he was lying.