The Earl of Blackwood’s dismissal echoed in the silence of her father’s study, a sharp, metallic sound against the gentle rustle of old parchment.
Beatrice Holloway did not fume. She did not weep.
She channeled her incandescent rage into a meticulous, methodical search.
To be dismissed as a “poaching amateur,” to have her life’s work—her family’s only hope—arrogantly claimed by a man who hid from the world in a glass palace, was an injustice she refused to accept.
Her father had not left them much in the way of coin, but he had left a legacy of paper.
Stacks of botanical journals, ledgers filled with accounts of failed ventures, and, tucked away in the bottom drawer of his heavy oak desk, a leather-bound folio of family documents.
For two days, fueled by weak tea and a simmering fury, she had sifted through deeds, wills, and letters, her fingers stained with dust and ink.
She was looking for a loophole, a forgotten clause, a whisper of a right that would give her leverage.
And then she found it.
It was an old charter, drafted in the looping, elegant script of the previous century, detailing an agreement between her great-grandfather, a botanist of some local renown, and the then-Earl of Blackwood.
In exchange for a rare collection of alpine seeds, the Holloway family was granted, in perpetuity, “the right to conduct botanical research and collect specimens for the purpose of scientific advancement” upon a small, specifically delineated parcel of Blackwood land known as Cutter’s Dell.
Beatrice’s breath caught.
She traced the faded map attached to the document, her heart hammering against her ribs. There, outlined in faint red ink, was the very glade where the orchid grew.
It was her lifeline. Not a request for permission, but a declaration of right.
Clutching the vellum, she did not hesitate.
Dressed in her most practical walking dress, her jaw set with a resolve that felt like armor, she walked the two miles back to the Blackwood estate.
She did not sneak onto the grounds this time. She marched up the main drive, her boots crunching on the pristine gravel, and presented herself at the grand front door.
The butler, a man whose face seemed permanently fixed in an expression of mild disapproval, looked down his nose at her. “Lord Blackwood is not receiving visitors.”
“He will receive me,” Beatrice said, her voice steady and clear. “Inform him that Miss Holloway has come to discuss a matter of legal and botanical urgency.”
She held up the rolled charter, a weapon in her hand.
She was made to wait in a cavernous, cold entryway, under the vacant gaze of a dozen Beaumont ancestors.
Finally, the butler returned, his expression now one of bewildered reluctance, and led her to the Earl’s study.
The room was the man himself: ordered, intimidating, and devoid of warmth. Books were caged behind glass, specimens were suspended in jars, and the air smelled of leather and polish.
Alistair Beaumont stood behind a massive desk, his posture rigid, his face a thundercloud.
“Miss Holloway,” he began, his voice a low growl. “I believe I made myself explicitly clear. You are not welcome on my land.”
“On the contrary, my lord,” Beatrice replied, stepping forward and unfurling the charter on the polished surface of his desk. “It seems I am not only welcome, but I have a legal right to be here.”
He stared at the document, his eyes scanning the archaic text. A muscle feathered in his jaw.
He read it once, then again, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features before being consumed by a wave of pure, unadulterated fury. He looked up at her, his grey eyes like chips of flint.
“This is an absurdity. A relic.”
“It is a legally binding contract, signed by your great-grandfather and witnessed by the local magistrate,” she countered, tapping a finger on the faded signatures. “I assure you, it is quite valid.”
“We shall see about that.” He strode to the bell pull and gave it a vicious tug. “I am sending for my solicitor. You will wait.”
The hour that followed was the most excruciating of Beatrice’s life.
She stood ramrod straight before his desk while he paced the room like a caged panther, refusing to offer her a seat, refusing to speak a word.
When the solicitor, a harried-looking man named Mr. Davies, finally arrived, he confirmed her claim with a series of apologetic coughs and deferential nods.
“The charter is… ironclad, my lord,” the solicitor stammered, avoiding his employer’s murderous gaze.
“The language is precise. Miss Holloway retains the right to conduct her research within the specified boundaries.”
Alistair stood perfectly still for a long moment, the silence in the room so profound Beatrice could hear the ticking of the mantel clock.
The battle of wills was over, and she had won. But the victory felt precarious, like standing on the edge of a cliff.
When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously soft.
“Very well, Miss Holloway. You have forced my hand. But do not for one moment think this changes anything. The orchid is on my land. It is my discovery.”
“It is our discovery,” she corrected, her chin lifting. “And I have no intention of abandoning my work on it.”
“Then we are at an impasse.” He turned to face her, his expression cold and calculating.
“You have the right to be there. I have the right to be there. Neither of us can prevent the other from studying the flower. Which means, against my better judgment and every instinct I possess, we are to be partners.” He spat the word as if it were poison.
Beatrice’s stomach twisted. A partnership with this man was the last thing she wanted, but it was the only path forward. “A reluctant partnership, at best.”
“Do not mistake this for a collaboration,” he warned, his eyes narrowed. “This is a cease-fire. A set of rules to keep us from throttling one another while we work. Come.”
He swept from the room without a backward glance, clearly expecting her to follow. She did, her heart a tangled knot of triumph and dread.
He led her not through the house, but out a side door and along a stone path that wound its way to the magnificent glasshouses.
The moment they stepped inside, the air changed. It grew heavy, warm, and humid, thick with the scent of damp earth, sweet blossoms, and decaying leaves.
It was his sanctuary, and she was the serpent in his Eden. He strode down the central aisle, his boots echoing on the flagstones.
“This will be our designated area,” he said, gesturing to a long, empty workbench near the propagation beds. “You may use this half.” He drew an invisible line down the center with his finger.
“All of your equipment, your notes, your sketches, will remain on your side. You will not touch my tools. You will not interfere with my experiments. And you will not speak to me unless it is directly related to the classification of the Cymbidium.”
Beatrice bristled at his tone. “The same rules apply to you, my lord. My research is my own. You will not have access to my journals or my illustrations without my express permission.”
“An unlikely request,” he sneered.
As they stood there, establishing the articles of their unwilling treaty, the head gardener, Mr. Finch, bustled in from a side door.
He carried a small, rough-hewn wooden crate, about the size of a hatbox, and he stopped dead in his tracks upon seeing them together, his eyes wide with alarm.
“My… my lord,” he stammered, clutching the crate to his chest as if it contained state secrets. “Miss Holloway. I did not realize…”
“We are establishing a workspace, Finch,” Alistair said dismissively, his attention still fixed on Beatrice.
But Beatrice’s gaze was on the gardener.
Finch was a man perpetually steeped in worry, but this was different. This was raw fear.
He gave a jerky nod and scurried towards a dark corner behind a wall of overgrown ferns, his movements furtive.
With a nervous glance back at them, he hastily shoved the crate under a potting bench, concealing it behind a stack of empty clay pots.
It was a small, discordant note in the humid harmony of the glasshouse. A crate that did not seem to belong among the botanical supplies, hidden with an urgency that felt entirely out of place.
Beatrice, a scientist trained to notice the smallest anomaly, filed the observation away.
“Is that clear, Miss Holloway?” Alistair’s sharp voice pulled her attention back.
“Perfectly,” she said, meeting his stormy gaze. “We will work independently, at the same table.”
“And the matter of publication?” he pressed, his voice laced with suspicion. “The naming of the species. Whose name will be credited by the Royal Society?”
Here it was. The heart of their conflict. The prize for which they were both fighting. Beatrice took a breath, holding his gaze without flinching.
“That,” she said, the word hanging in the charged air between them, “is a matter to be decided later. When the work is complete. For now, we have an orchid to classify.”
A slow, dangerous smile touched Alistair’s lips. It was not a pleasant sight. It was the expression of a man who relished a battle, even one he had been forced into. “So we do, Miss Holloway. So we do.”
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her standing alone by the empty workbench. Their territory had been divided, their truce declared.
But as Beatrice looked around the glasshouse, at the riot of exotic life teeming in the humid air, she knew this was no peace. It was merely the drawing of a new, far more complicated, battle line.
And she, a lone woman against an earl, was determined to win the war.