Lady Eleanor Beaumont was only seven the first time she saw the gardens of Greystone Castle.
The carriage ride had been long, and her bonnet sat crooked from where she had tugged it nervously. But when the gates opened and the carriage rolled up the gravel path, all thoughts of discomfort slipped away. The gardens stretched out in a dazzling sweep of green — rows of trimmed hedges, fountains that glittered under the sun, and wide lawns perfect for running barefoot.
Her eyes shone. She forgot her manners, forgot the way her governess always told her to walk slowly and properly. As soon as she was led outside, Eleanor's small feet carried her straight into the grass, her laughter ringing out like a bell.
She was not alone for long.
"William!" a voice called.
A boy came racing down the path — not much older than Eleanor, his hair golden and wild, his grin mischievous. He stopped short when he saw her, his blue eyes widening.
"Who are you?" he asked, curiosity spilling from him as easily as his energy.
"I am Eleanor," she replied, smoothing her dress though her cheeks were pink.
He grinned again. "I'm William. Come on, I'll show you the maze!"
Without waiting, he seized her hand and tugged her toward the tall hedges at the far end of the garden. Eleanor giggled, trying to keep up, her skirts brushing the grass.
But then another figure appeared — older, quieter, watching them with calm, steady eyes.
Lord Theodore.
He was twelve, already carrying himself with the solemnity of a grown man. He didn't run, didn't shout. He walked toward them with measured steps, his dark hair catching the light, his gaze fixed on Eleanor as though he were trying to read her thoughts.
"William," he said softly, "don't drag her so fast. You'll make her stumble."
William rolled his eyes, though fondly. "She doesn't mind. Do you, Eleanor?"
Eleanor shook her head, her smile shy but bright. Yet when Theodore drew nearer, she slowed, her steps falling in time with his. There was something about the way he moved, the way he spoke, that made her want to listen.
The three of them spent the afternoon in the gardens. William climbed trees and dared Eleanor to follow, darting ahead through the maze, always laughing. Eleanor joined in, breathless and delighted, but her gaze returned again and again to Theodore. He didn't run wild like his brother, yet somehow he was always near — steady hands helping her down from a stone ledge, a quiet voice warning her not to slip, dark eyes softening whenever she smiled.
When the sun began to sink, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, Eleanor sat in the grass, her chest rising and falling with tired laughter. William collapsed beside her, still talking about all the games they hadn't yet played.
Theodore remained standing, hands folded behind his back, watching them both with a silence that seemed far older than his years.
Eleanor's small heart, though she did not yet understand it, leaned toward him.
She would not remember the long speeches of their parents that evening, nor the knowing looks exchanged over the dinner table. She would remember the garden. The laughter. The apple tree. The quiet boy who watched over her as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
And though she was only seven, Lady Eleanor Beaumont would carry that memory for the rest of her life.